Stories, Night Thoughts
by Sahara Storm
Summary: [Oneshot, XenaGabrielle] They have each other.


**Title:** Stories, Night Thoughts**  
Fandom:** Xena: Warrior Princess**  
Pairing:** Xena/Gabrielle**  
Rating: **PG**  
Word Count: **1,239**  
Summary/Description:** They have each other.**  
Warning/Spoilers:** No warnings. Tiny spoilers for 'Athens city Academy of the Performing Bards'.**  
A/N: **31 days, May 13th: _all I have are stories, night thoughts_. Sort of coda to 1x13. Written a while ago as you can see; I forgot to upload it here. :3**  
Disclaimer:** Not mine. Don't sue.

* * *

Gabrielle doesn't like to think of herself as an arrogant or boastful person, but she must say; she's an _excellent_ storyteller.

When she was little, stories were all she had. They were the blanket under which she covered herself when she needed solace, or a distraction, or just the pleasure of weaving words together like a tapestry, or a chain of wildflowers. Words were _gorgeous_ things, in every language; Gabrielle found the greatest pleasure in drawing out the syllables, pronouncing each sound, putting emphasis on certain words to heighten tension or induce tears. Her mother, her father, her sister, the rest of the village, and almost everyone she comes into contact with are in agreement; Gabrielle has a natural flare for the spoken word.

It's in the diction. It's in the poetry of the words, using each letter like a different shade of paint to create a montage of action and emotion. It's in her movement; the flick of a wrist, the clenching of a fist, the slow, careful pace across a dusty floor, with every eye in the room trained on her. It's in the journey from an exciting beginning to a peaceful end. It's in the faces of her audience, when she knows she has them hooked, and waiting for more. Even when she was a child, Gabrielle poured everything about herself into her stories, because she wanted people to see them as she saw them, to share the excitement that she felt, to live in the moment. As she grows up, so does that desire to share her stories.

And she has such beautiful, expansive material to work with. Tales of the gods, of mythical beasts and fantastic creatures, of courageous adventurers and their mighty deeds. The world is a wide, wondrous place, with so many things to experience and tell of, so many stories to be heard.

But the best ones, she's found, are the ones she lives through herself, with Xena.

The tale of a heroic battle for the life of an innocent is much more riveting from the point of view of someone who was there fighting alongside Xena, rather than watching from the wayside. An account of a man desperately trying to rescue his lost love is that much more poignant coming from the mouth of someone who heard his plight face to face, helped him through his grief. The story of Death's capture and release is much more thrilling when told by someone whose own life was in danger.

Yes, Gabrielle tells the stories, and she tells them well.

Sometimes, it feels like these stories are all that she has. Though by no means helpless, she counts on Xena for so much. Xena is strong and fierce and resourceful and beautiful, the paragon of a warrior. And Gabrielle? She's okay with a staff, she can talk herself out of anything... and she tells stories.

On the road to the next town, she tells the latest story; the events that took place in Athens. Xena is a few paces ahead, leading Argo down the path as Gabrielle paints the picture of Homer, his father, and the other friends she made.

At one point, she stops, mid-sentence, and watches the sway of Xena's hair as she walks. She waits for a reaction, because if stories are all she has, she hopes that they mean something to the person who means the most to her.

It's barely noticeable. Xena says nothing, and her pace doesn't slow in the slightest, but she cocks her head to the left, as if waiting for the continuation of the aborted sentence.

Gabrielle grins, and continues weaving her tale, because she has Xena.

* * *

Xena has no patience for dreams. Now, she lives for the present; what is real, what is tangible, what can still be salvaged. She lives for the knowledge that she can now do good, that she can help others. She lives for the future of this world, and saving it is a fulltime job, so Xena has no patience for dreams.

Perhaps, then, Morpheus is showing his sense of humour.

Xena isn't laughing.

Years ago, she didn't dream much. What was there to dream of, after all? She had everything she wanted; gold, a formidable army, the power to create chaos when and wherever she wished. Dreams were for fools who had time to waste wishing for things, and didn't have the initiative or the strength to instead reach out and _take_ them; fools with time to sleep and a sub-consciousness to fuel their thoughts. Xena had little of either.

Sometimes, she would hear the scream of a little girl that wasn't there, or the choking, dying breath of a farmer. They left her unfazed; they were then the sounds of victory.

Now, many years, many lessons and a gauntlet of pain later, things are different. She fights for what is right, rather than what can be gained. She sees the evil, the malice, the festering nature of mankind and godkind, but she also sees the goodness, the kindness, the valour and the pride that can exist in the hearts of normal, simple folk. She has something that she never before imagined possible: a friend. A tiny, feisty, eternally exasperating friend who doesn't know the meaning of silence, but a friend nonetheless. The past is cordoned off to her memories; to be learnt from, but never to be revisited.

Except in dreams.

Xena dreams of orphans, of widows and of widowers, and the corpses that pave the roads ahead of them. In sleep, she sees a ruthless army who lets nothing get in its way, lets no one stand against it. She sees soul after soul that she sent to Hades, countless companions that she provided for Death. They are not nightmares; the person that Xena used to be does not scare her. The possibility that she can remerge does.

Sometimes, it feels like these night thoughts are all she has. There is no man that she fears, no enemy that she will hesitate to vanquish for the sake of goodness, no task she will not attempt, but ironically, it is the intangible that becomes daunting to her.

Camping at the edge of the woods, near a small stream, she awakens from the latest dream. The curtain of midnight hair that obscures her vision is reminiscent of black clouds of smoke rising from charred ruins. She remembers hands stained with blood and a war cry that chilled even her. She remembers death, and doling it out.

Xena presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, before movement next to her makes her remove them. It is Gabrielle, wrapped up in a blanket, snorting softly and rolling about on the grass in slumber.

The warrior princess watches, amused. Soon, Gabrielle's movements bring her across to Xena, where she unceremoniously kicks a leg across Xena's thighs, and nestles her head in the crook of her shoulder. She is muttering in her sleep; something about a mighty, beautiful bard.

Her first instinct is, of course, to shove her away, but she stays her hand. Instead, she takes a moment to register how strange it feels, and yet how... normal. She looks down at Gabrielle's tousled blonde hair, tangled around her neck, sticking to her lips.

She smirks, softly.

In a few minutes, she is asleep. The night thoughts do not come again, because she has Gabrielle.

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**A/N:** I'd love to know your thoughts.


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